Published on: 10/28/2011
Pigeons

I want to throw compasses like clay pigeons
And burst them with bird shot
From the muzzle of a gun I was given
By my benevolent dead grandfather, on the spot
Where I became a man in his eyes

That man is the rusting relic of a confused child
Who imagines the scattered spinning needles
And glimpsed reflections of crinkled green eyes
Winking from the broken glass, guiding him to the real
Breathing life into this golem

This construct of safety and meaningless toil,
Now withers, watching hours drain vindictively away
He's a lobster in a pot, and the water must boil
He'll steam in the restless heat of the first summer's day
Another watershed moment to be damned

He is filled with the flotsam of half-formed schemes
He is searching in the compass-needles for some guide
Some path that will lead him out of this purgatory-dream,
This collection of obsolete memories he can no longer abide
The young man is a grain of sand

He prays for high tide